


softly enclosed

by renquise



Category: Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie
Genre: F/F, really scandalous hand kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renquise/pseuds/renquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Awn has grown used to Ors and its nights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	softly enclosed

Awn has grown used to Ors and its nights. In her first weeks on Ors, she lay sprawled on her pallet, unable to sleep, too accustomed to the controlled temperatures of Justice of Toren and too aware of the knot of nervousness sitting in her stomach. She remembers long nights, mostly spent listening to One Esk's humming carried on the thick air and waiting for sleep to come.

The air outside is still close and humid, even at night, but it's familiar, now. She could even say that she likes it on evenings like these, the hours slow and languid and golden, with Skaaiat lingering over tea and making easy, meandering talk. 

Awn is glad of their wandering conversation, because she occasionally forgets her words when the lamplight illuminates Skaaiat's profile and turns her skin to dark gold.

“More tea?” Skaaiat says, filling the silence. 

“Please,” Awn says, turning her cup towards her.

Skaaiat reaches across the low table to pour for both of them, and their knees touch, warm and electric.

She pours, and Awn puts her hand on Skaaiat's knee, feeling bold. Skaaiat looks surprised, just for a moment, and then her eyes go soft. 

She puts down the teapot and lowers her hand on top of Awn's, giving her time to remove it, if she so wished. Skaaiat's hand is still warm from holding the teapot, the heat seeping through Awn's thin gloves and sinking into her skin.

Skaaiat's gloves are elegant and perfectly proper, but the fabric fitted along her fingers makes Awn's mouth go dry, despite the tea. 

Her own gloves are light but utilitarian, a concession to the climate, and not anything more daring. She saw some of the more provocative styles of gloves in the few times she visited the more central areas of the Radch: some of them whisper-thin, coloured a rich, deep brown to blend into skin, others with complicated lacing along the inside of the arm, the better to remove them slowly.

All of them too expensive for her, and Awn doesn't know if they would suit her, anyway. But she suddenly feels self-conscious about the shabbiness of this pair; they've been mended several times, usually by One Esk plying a needle to the rhythm of a song under its breath.

Skaaiat's fingers find the line of fine-stitched repairs between the index and the thumb of Awn's gloves, and her touch lingers on it, stroking along the join.

“Shall I buy you a new pair? I'm sure you deserve it,” Skaaiat says. She offers it playfully, but something in Awn can't help but bristle. 

It's just a reflex, and she knows Skaaiat means nothing by it. Perhaps she envies Skaaiat the ease with which she offers this gift, wishes she could offer something so easily in return.

“No, thank you,” she says stiffly. “It's very kind of you.”

Skaaiat pauses. She removes her hand from Awn's, her touch moving to the more neutral territory of Awn's thigh. “I've misstepped, I think. I'm sorry.”

Awn regrets saying it at once—regrets complicating the warm playfulness of the night. She catches up Skaaiat's hand again and this time, tangles their fingers together. “No—no, it's fine.”

Skaaiat's skin is too dark to show her flush, but Awn feels a rolling thrill in her stomach at Skaaiat's indrawn breath. She squeezes Skaaiat's hand, feeling Skaaiat's long, fine fingers twined between hers. Awn loosens her grip and runs her fingers over the strong bones and the flexible veins on the back of Skaaiat's hand. She can even feel the suggestion of Skaaiat's pearl-smooth fingernails under her gloves. 

Skaaiat shifts her grip, hooks the tip of her thumb into the edge of Awn's glove, and Awn takes a sharp breath. 

“May I?” Skaaiat asks, in her impeccable high-Radch accent.

“Yes,” Awn says. “Please.”

Skaaiat tugs down the edge of Awn's glove, exposing the inside of her wrist. She must be able to feel Awn's pulse, because it beats loud in Awn's ears, and she can feel her face flushing.

Skaaiat raises her hand slowly and places a dry kiss to her wrist. 

When she looks up at Awn, her eyes are dark. Awn's fingers curl involuntarily, as if to catch that fleeting touch. Skaaiat lowers her head again and presses another kiss to the centre of Awn's palm, burning hot through the fabric of her glove.

Skaaiat kisses along each joint of her fingers, and then touches her lips to the tips of Awn's fingers, her mouth slightly open. Her hot breath is enough to dampen the fabric at the tips of Awn's glove, and it chills the ends of her fingers when Skaaiat raises her head, a shiver coursing through her muscles and down her spine.

“More tea, then?” Skaaiat asks, still holding her hand. It's almost shy, with only the slightest edge of roughness to her voice.

“No,” Awn says. “I don't think so.” She leans forward and kisses Skaaiat, bringing her down to lie amongst the cushions. 

She folds Skaaiat's hands between hers, and slowly bares them to the night.


End file.
